Slap a Story is a place for people like you and me: for people who like to read and write. Submit your original short story (heck, you can do it anonymously) for everyone to read and discuss. As well as vote and comment on stories submitted by others.
So go ahead, start writing and let your creative juices flow.
Bush Bundi flinched every time he strangled someone. It wasn’t because the act was heinous to him. Actually, the act of strangling someone was pleasurable, particularly when he watched the eyes of his victim, not to mention the surge of power that pulsed throughout his body and mind. The Rose Strangler, they called him in the media. Females. 40’s. Five to date. Said he pas...
Wearing old fashioned garb and smelling faintly of cauliflower, he waited impatiently in the driver seat of the van. Sweat beads rolled down his temples, he reached down to scratch his balls. Why the hell did he always have to do the driving? He knew how to intimidate. He knew how to shoot a gun. The part that he disliked the most about driving was the tension. He couldn't get out and stretch his ...
She realised it was a mistake as soon as she turned the corner. Something grabbed at her clothes. She screamed but no sound came out. She began to run. She was breathing heavily. She could hear groaning, forced breaths in her ear. As she became more tired she forced her legs to go faster and faster. She allowed herself to glance over her shoulder, but she saw nothing but blackness. She reached a w...
I sat at the edge of the bed and took it all in, miming the emotions of self-control and tranquility. With each shriek of scurrilous accusations regarding our lack of financial endowment, I clenched the sheets tighter showing the vascularity of my once graceful hands. “Rent is due in four days Joe, are you gonna pay it? What about Julie’s ballet recital ‘morrow afternoon, d&r...
The ancient clock struck nine, the decisive gong momentarily disturbing the peace of the church. Father Casati sat in pensive silence, head bowed, arms folded in reverence, as the forgiving figure of Jesus looked down upon him with compassion. The sudden intrusion of sound broke him out of his reverie, and he opened his eyes unwillingly, taking in the altar before him. He blinked rapidly, trying t...
A brand is a collection of images and representing an economic producer; more specifically, it refers to the descriptive verbal attributes and concrete symbols such as a name, logo, slogan, and design scheme that convey the essence of a company, product or service. Brand recognition and other reactions are created by the accumulation of experiences with the spe...
The short story is a literary genre of fictional prose narrative that tends to be more concise and to the point than longer works of fiction such asnovellas (in the modern sense of the term) and novels.OverviewShort stories have their origins in oral story-telling traditions and the prose anecdote, a swiftly-sketched...
Edgar Allan Poe (January 19, 1809 – October 7, 1849) was an American poet, short-story writer,editor and literary critic, and is considered part of the American Romantic Movement. Best known for his tales of mystery and the macabre, Poe was one of the earliest American practitioners of the short story and is considered the in...
"UNDER THE SUN AND UNDER THY STARS YOU ALL SHALL CRISP INTO NOTHING MORE THAN A JAMBET(A KNORK WITHOUT THE MEEEIR0)ME A TRAITOR NO IM NOT A KIRREEN SINGING KAJEET BIRD FROM THE MOUNTAINS OF SANTINIO ( HOME OF THE TRIVIANSTARTS)YOU ARE NOTHING COMPARED TO A MERERNCKEXHFR(%*^^%&(^^)_) ...
2:34am London Basingstoke Paddock Road Oh God! This is it, he's going to catch me!, then what, what does he want with me, does he want my I-pod, what if he tries to kill me, I've got to keep going. My name is (insert name) and this was the day I ran for my life. I was just going home after my mates party, he asked if I would be OK walking back, I didn't want him to think I couldn't take care of my...